I’m Gonna Pack My Things (and Leave You Behind)
I’m gonna pack my things (and leave you behind)
summary: You’re five years old when Darth Vader kills your mom. Or — so you think — your parents.
pairing: han solo x skywalker!reader (eventually), platonic skywalker family x reader
word count: 4.3k
warnings: so many feelings, reader's anakin and padme's daighter, also she's a itty bitty haunted by the force, anakin and padme die but it’s not really explored much (yet), mentions of childbirth, nightmares, mentions of anakin’s demise on mustafar, one swear word i think
author's note: I know y'all want an update on the heir and the wolf and that the star wars fandom is as dead as pope francis but PLEASE HEAR ME OUT ON THIS ONE 🙏🙏🙏 this is for the 2 people that said they would read it lmao
divider from @saradika
You’re four years old when your mum comes back to your apartment on Coruscant with the happy news.
She nears your room, where you're trying to screw back together a toy lightsaber that you somehow managed to dissect — tongue sticking out of your mouth, a concentrated pout prominent on your face. You’re really your father’s daughter, she ponders sometimes, thinking back to that blonde boy on the sand planet that managed to build a whole robot with scraps. The nurse droid, RO-N4, is dutifully watching your work, assuring that you don’t hurt yourself in the process and hinting at the pieces that should go back together; she raises her head when she sees that Padmé has returned.
You jump up when you notice her, running to give her a big hug, almost making her lose her balance; but she’s used to it, and wastes no time in hoisting you on her hip. The robot stands up, ready to gently reprimand you, but your mother gingerly shoos her away with a smile. “Why don’t you go out with Threepio on a walk? I’ll stay here with her. We have something to discuss.” she winks at you, “Some serious girl talk to do, am I right?”
You giggle — that childish, innocent laugh that makes hours of relentless debates in the Senate worth going through — rubbing your cheek against hers. “Yeah! I have shoooo many things to tell you, mama!”
The robots follow the senator’s suggestion, stumbling their way out of the door, and you soon go back to the area dedicated to your toys to show her your hard work. “Look, mama!” you’re basically jumping up and down in joy, holding up the pieces of the once toy lightsaber. “This is the cyber crystal–”
“Kyber crystal, sweetie.”
“Ky-ber crystal. And then this is the one part of the handle with the switch–”
You could go on and ramble for hours, she thinks. She’d happily listen to all and any of your thoughts and wonders and never get tired from it. Soon enough, Padmé’s lying down on the soft sponge puzzle pieces of the playmat that serve to prevent any possible injury from falling over. We’ll need to change those soon, she thinks absentmindedly, she’s already grown out of the always-falling-over phase.
She isn’t sure of how much time passes; at some point your ramblings slow and you scoot closer to her, sniggling in her lap. “Mama,” you mumble, yawning. “‘m so happy that you’re here. I missed you a lot today.”
Her heart breaks. A hand carding through your locks, she smiles sadly, “I know, sweetie, I’m sorry that mama has to work so much. But I promise it’s just so that once you grow up you will be able to live in a peaceful Galaxy, without ever worrying about learning how to fight like your papa.”
You perk up. “But I wanna be like papa when I grow up.”
She shakes her head, feigning her best scandalized expression. “How dare you? What am I, chopped liver?” she takes you in her arms and blows raspberries in your cheeks, making you squeal and thrash around. “Nooo! Don’t, mama, it’s ticklish!”
“What about being a senator, mh?” she offers, not unkindly. “We can fight too, you know.” She puts on her best imitation of Palpatine and presses a matter of utmost importance, “Senator Skywalker, what do you think we should have for dinner as of today?”
Your chuckle makes your little chest rumble against her belly. Your surname is not Skywalker — it is Amidala, often Naberrie when on Naboo, but never have your parents referred to you as that; they mostly leave it out when asked, avoiding the question but never stating either the truth or the cover-up. There’s still hope to change the Order, Anakin always says, that one day she can wear my surname without it causing a scandal. And Padmé believes him: and she believes that when the time comes, you’ll be rightly known as Senator Skywalker.
Suddenly, you go quiet. “I want papa,” you whisper it like it’s forbidden — it kind of is, but you shouldn’t know that. Padmé’s heart breaks a little again. Anakin was sent out on a mission two weeks ago and hasn’t even been able to keep in touch ever since, making you miss him terribly.
She laughs as softly as she can — she doesn’t want to hurt your feelings. “No can do, sweetie. Papa isn’t due to be home in at least another three days, but I’m sure that once he’s here he’ll be elated to spend some time with you. Besides, you can’t eat papa for dinner.” she rests her cheek on her hand, patting the free space next to her. “Until he comes back, it’s just you and me. What would you like to do tomorrow? I have no Senate meetings.”
You scoot closer, lying down on the spot she just patted, curling against her chest, “Can we see Ahsoka, then?”
She chuckles a little quieter now. Her and Anakin still don't know how to explain to you that she left the Order a while ago and has no intention on returning to Coruscant any time soon. “Ahsoka’s away like papa, honey. But I’m sure that once she comes back, she’ll be just as happy as he will to spend time with you.”
She smooths your hair back, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead, pressing her hand up and down your back. She wonders how good of a sister you’ll be; and even if she knows you’ll be wonderful with the new baby, she still can’t bring herself to say it out loud. “How about I make some shaak meat and then get you prepared for a good bubble bath?”
You look up at her, pouting, “But I’m big now! Do I really have to bathe?”
Padmé bursts out laughing. “You’ll have to clean yourself your whole life, sweetheart, to hopefully not smell like a bantha.”
You huff, glaring at her. “Papa barely even showers.”
“Papa stinks. He was raised on a planet with barely any water and still considers showers optional. Do you ever hear me tell him how I love his perfume? No, that’s because he doesn’t use any. You hear me sending him to sleep on the couch because he smells terribly, though.”
You end up eating your dinner — vegetables included — without a fuss and going to take your bath like a champ. Somewhere along that timespan both the nurse droid and C-3PO came back home to be of help in cleaning the kitchen as Padmé prepares you for bed, lying down next to you and reading to you one of the stories in the hologram that Anakin bought on one of his last missions.
MId-story, she notices you get eerily silent. She carefully turns her head, trying to understand if you’re already sleeping, only to find you more awake than her, eyes open wide. “Is… is everything alright, sweetie?” she asks, a bit bewildered– just a moment ago, you looked like you were about to fall asleep, and now you look like you’re ready to fight everything that could be thrown at you.
“Mama,” you whisper it like it’s a secret, “I just remembered. How are they?”
She blinks, confused. “Who?”
“The twins,” you say, “Luke and Leia.” you pat her belly as if to state the obvious.
She looks at you, horrified — she found out she was pregnant today, and no droid or doctor mentioned twins. “I– sweetheart, what?”
You lean your head, confused. “I saw them yesterday in a dream. They asked me about you.”
Her heart almost stops. She laughs nervously, looking at you with wide eyes, expecting you to say something about the weird and absolutely not real dream that you had, but instead you just stare at her, completely serious. “What… what do you mean?”
You frown. “If you don’t know, then I can’t help you. Nighty night.” you tuck yourself under the covers and curl above her chest once again, sighing happily.
Padmé’s heart feels heavy. It’s happening again– you murmur something about having had a dream, say something even more alarming, then completely ignore what you just said and act like nothing happened. It’s getting worrying — Padmé managed to get you out of the Jedi program last year just because of her status as senator, but she is sure that this year, she won’t be as lucky. The quantity of midi-chlorians in your blood can’t be hid, unfortunately, and in probably less than a year she will be forced to give you up to the Temple.
Anakin’s sure you will make a great Jedi, but your mother’s worried — and how can she not be? Her husband’s more away than he is at home, and with the war going on, it’s already a miracle he manages to visit Coruscant. The fact that you seem to possess your father’s horrifying ability to dream about possible futures doesn’t ease her worries.
“I’m just worried about her–”
“But why? She’s young, she’ll be trained–”
“She will, but I don’t want her to be haunted by the thoughts of possible futures and whatnot.”
It’s late. You’ve already gone to bed, shushed by Anakin’s stories and anecdotes from his latest mission, and even if this should be a carefree and happy moment because her husband has managed to come back home unscathed again– your mother just can’t get something out of her head.
Anakin huffs and puts his hands on his waist, looking at Padmé like she’s crazy — there it is, where you got your attitude from. “I can always call one of the Temple guards and tell them that there’s a Force-sensitive kid here. They can train her until I can take her as Padawan; it’ll take, what? Six, seven years? Hopefully I’ll be done with the war by that time and will be able to focus on her as my padawan.”
His wife crosses her arms, glaring at him, “I don’t want her as your padawan,” she grits out, “I want her safe, here, where we can have a decent relationship and she won’t be stripped away from my arms.”
He leans his head and raises an eyebrow. “Sweetheart, I can’t make her dreams go away. I don’t even know how to make my nightmares go. But at the Temple, they can teach her how to control them, how to use them for her own good– for the Order’s and the Republic’s own good–”
“You say that just because you wouldn’t have any problems in seeing her,” she sniffs, “you’ll be a welcome, familiar presence in the Temple — but it is known that they don’t let anyone outside of the Jedi enter.”
His shoulders drop, and he starts shaking his head. “Padmé…”
“Don’t. Don’t tell me that we have to give her up to the Temple, because I don’t want to and I won’t–”
“But we’ll have to, Padmé, they’ll teach her everything she’ll ever need and–”
She bursts out crying. It might be the pregnancy, or the fact that she still hasn’t told him about it and it’s eating her alive, but she’s much more emotional than usual. “I don’t want them to take her away from me!”
Anakin’s eyes soften, his posture breaks, “Oh, dear,” he mutters, pulling her in his arms and letting her cry out in his chest. “It’ll be alright,” he murmurs, lips pressed to her head, “we’ll find a solution for everything.” He still doesn’t know when or how, but he’ll try with everything he has to solve this situation to the best of his ability.
He had honestly thought Padmé was exaggerating when she said that you were having visions, probably thinking it was just baby babbling or something, but he is proven wrong that same night, when he is abruptly woken up by the sound of the door of their bedroom opening.
“Papa?” you call out from the doorstep, voice sleepy.
He manages to get himself out of bed — when he’s home, night duty is always on him, as Padmé already deals with it enough while he’s away — and, yawning, he walks off to you and kneels down to your level, sending a glance to your bantha plushie safely tucked under your elbow. “What is it, sweetheart?”
Blank stare on your part, you look at him like a war veteran would. “You were being burned, papa.”
He blinks and counts to five before accepting that it’s way too late in the night — or early in the morning, he has no idea — to deal with this type of shit. “Okay, listen– how about we go catch some fresh air outside, hm?”
You let him pick you up without any protests, curling up in his arms as you whimper quietly. He drags his feet along the pavement of the apartment, sliding open the door to the terrace that overlooks the whole city; it’s like it never sleeps, always someone going around and about with their speeders, lights often left on in the apartments below. The night air sends a chill down his spine and he instinctively holds you tighter in hopes to shield you from the cold.
“Mum told me about these dreams you’ve been having,” he starts slowly.
You hum, pressing closer to him, the plushie squashed between you two. Your eyes look tired, almost older than you actually are, and his heart squeezes at the sight. “Papa, do you know Darth Vader?”
His heart skips a beat. He knows no Vader, surely not a Sith named like that, but the fact that you dreamed about it almost makes his knees buckle. He mentally promises himself to make some digging in the archives and reports for any Vaders that might be hiding out there. “I don’t, sweetheart. Do you?”
Your brows furrow, your little hand patting the skin above his heart. “I don’t think I do.”
He presses his lips into a thin line. “Well, what does he do in your dreams?”
Your frown deepens. “I never see him. But Obi-Wan’s afraid of him– or, or angry at him, I’m not sure. Maybe both.”
His frown mirrors yours. You’ve never met Obi-Wan aside from a time or two when he was assigned as bodyguard to your mother, but that was years ago; you shouldn’t be able to remember him. “How do you know who Obi-Wan is, sweetheart?”
You stare at him like he’s stupid. “Isn’t he a friend?”
“I mean, I guess he is, but you’ve never actually met him, have you?”
“Then I think I will.” you cuddle back on his shoulder like nothing happened.
Yeah, we gotta send this one to the Temple, he bitterly thinks. The thought of your mother alone in this apartment after years of having you around makes him sad, but there’s no one else apart from the masters there that could help you — he would try to, if the war wasn’t stripping him of all of his free time.
Anakin has no time to properly train you. As of now, he could manage to give you chopped notions and barely any principles; in the Temple, all the Jedi solely focus on the younglings’ training, a luxury he can’t afford right now.
She’s still so young, Padmé’s voice rings in his head, I don’t want her to forget about me.
Six years old might be already too old for a youngling, Anakin ponders, but five years old would be perfect. They still accept kids that age.
Another birthday for Padmé, he decides, another birthday and then off to the Temple she goes.
Except, he doesn’t know there’s no time for another birthday. Not for Padmé, anyways. Nor for him, too, some could argue.
“Papa,” you mumble, “could you sing me that lullaby?”
He chuckles affectionately. “Aren’t you getting a little too old for that?” He teases, with no actual intent in ever stopping to sing Ghost Star to you. You could be forty and him on his deathbed and, if you asked, he’d still sing it for you. “Ghost star, wonder where you are; Ghost star, are you very far? All night long, I will sing your song, if you watch over me…”
You do end up properly meeting Obi-Wan. That is, unfortunately, after — for what you know — both your parents die.
The air in the spacecraft is eerily still, as even C-3PO is stunned to silence. The tears on your cheeks have long since dried, and you keep fidgeting with a small, faintly glowing cube in your hands — the only thing you managed to take with you when your mother loaded you into the spaceship directed to Mustafar. She’s — was, was, was — able to open it, but you still have no idea how to do it; your father promised he would have taught you to, but… well. He now never will.
The cries from the med bay stopped a while ago. And while you’re still so young, you know that the silence means nothing good. You might not be a master of the Force, or know enough about it to understand fully what it means, but you’ve felt it — your mother’s presence slipping away in favor of two smaller ones.
Finally, after a time that seems never-ending, Obi-Wan emerges from the door connecting the hallway with the infirmary, his expression full of sorrow. He looks surprised by your calmness, almost as if he had expected you to have gone crazy by now. “Hi,” he breathes lowly, tired and remorseful. How do you tell a kid her mother’s dead when just a few hours ago you had to break the same type of news about her father?
After he understands that you’re not going to reply, he gets closer and kneels in front of you, taking note of the cube you’re holding in your hands — a holocron. Does she know how to open it, yet? “Hey, kid,” he tries as softly as he can, “I…”
“Mama’s gone, isn’t she?” You interrupt him. Obi-Wan almost stumbles; the look in your eyes is scaringly similar to the one Anakin had sometimes, strangely old for your age. “I felt her slipping away like papa did.”
His lips are pressed into a thin line as he puts a hand on your shoulder. “I’m really sorry,” he says it even though he knows it won’t change anything. “We tried everything, but even the medical droid had no idea what to do.”
“Oh,” C-3PO mumbles as R2-D2 beeps sadly. “This– this is horrendous news.”
You nod absentmindedly, like you’d seen it coming. “Are Luke and Leia okay?”
He raises his eyebrows. “Who?”
“The twins. Are they okay?”
As even Padmé looked surprised by the fact she was having twins, he wonders how in the world you knew and gave them names. Your mother left no names behind, and he had thought about just naming them after your parents, but if you already had names picked out… then it’s not his place to name your siblings, is it?
“They are.” C-3PO sighs in relief as R2-D2 lets out a happier beep. “Would you like to see them?”
You nod timidly, almost stumbling as you stand up from the chair you sat in and taking Obi-Wan’s hand when he offers it to you. You’re still gripping on the holocron like a lifeline, its dim glow faltering every now and then. “Do you know what that is?” He asks, pointing at it as the door to the infirmary opens.
You glance at it, unsure. “Dunno. Mama always played the hologram inside when I missed papa, but I tried opening it and it didn’t work.”
If Padmé managed to open it, then Anakin must’ve programmed the holocron so that the Force frequency needed to open it was small enough that she could play it; even if you were a prodigy like your father, though, it would be impossible for you to open it without directions or a minimal training.
The nurse-droid your mother brought with her is feeding some milk to one of the twins when you enter — Obi-Wan guesses she might have had it with her the whole time, because he doesn’t remember this ship having such a thing as baby formula in its stocks.
RO-N4 places the infant back in the cot with the other twin as soon as they burp, and since you’re still too short to properly look at them Obi-Wan has to take you in his arms for you to have a good peek.
“This is Leia,” he murmurs softly, pointing at the baby with small tufts of brown hair. “She was born first.” He then points to the smaller, uglier and balder twin, “And this is Luke; he was born right after.”
You coo, pushing your index finger against Luke’s cheek. “They’re so ugly,” you state, not exactly with the intent of insulting them– just saying what’s in your mind.
Obi-Wan chuckles fondly. “Well, I’m sure you were at least as ugly as them when you were this little. Pretty much everyone is.”
You turn to him, holocron still in hand, hesitantly nudging it to him. “Mister Obi,” you say, calling him with the nickname that later on will stick to him for pretty much your entire time spent with him, “do you know how to play this?”
He nods, taking the holocron in his hand and changing his hold on you so that he can use his other hand while still keeping you upright, “This is a holocron. It’s used by Force users to store information and files, and it opens if infused with the Force. Let’s see…”
He concentrates on the cube, focusing a small amount of Force within it, then delicately twists the corners as it starts to glow steadier. Just as he expected — the smallest amount of Force that even Padmé could’ve been able to conjure up. The holocron starts to float, projecting a hologram in the dim-lit room.
It starts with Anakin, clearly just knighted as a proper Jedi: he’s still a bit scrawny, his hair’s yet to grow after the braid and the small ponytail for padawans had been cut. He looks a bit embarrassed to be in front of the camera as a small baby’s cries echo in the recording. “Do I really have to do this?” He mutters.
A laugh comes from the side, and the baby’s cries get louder — maybe closer to the camera. “Of course you do!” It’s Padmé’s voice, amused but clearly tired, stabbing directly into Obi-Wan's heart. That poor, poor girl… “It’s the only way she’ll stop crying, and since you’re mostly off-world, she’s mostly crying. This will solve a lot of my problems — even the droids are starting to go mad.”
A pair of arms and a swoosh of a dress appear to the side, and suddenly a crying infant is trusted into Anakin’s hands. It’s you, his master realises, crying as if the world’s about to end, face all red and pudgy, definitely a bit less ugly than your siblings. Your father’s eyes soften in a way that makes Obi-Wan’s heart ultimately crumble.
“Hey,” he murmurs, cooing and humming as he presses kisses all over your cheeks. He winces as your face contorts even more, “Now, c’mon, don’t look at me like that,”
“Please, Master, just sing the song!” It’s C-3PO’s voice in the distance, full of despair and anguish. “Another sob and the metal holding me together might just turn to rust!” R2-D2’s beeping seems to be of the same idea as him.
Anakin huffs, glaring down at you with no real hostility. “You’re one hell of a spoiled baby, you know that?”
Your cries continue nonetheless. He glares at the camera. “Padmé, I love you, but if anyone else ever sees this, I’m divorcing you,”
“You would never,” your mother’s knowing voice is a mere rumble in the distance as Anakin settles to hold you tight to his chest, pressing a kiss to your forehead before starting to sing.
“Ghost star, wonder where you are; Ghost star, are you very far? All night long, I will sing your song, if you watch over me. Ghost star, hiding in the night, all your friends are all so bright… when the sky is clear, I can sense you near, looking down on me. Ghost star, silent in the sky, now I start to wonder why. Show me your light; I've waited all night. Ghost star, won't you sing with me?”
He sings the lullaby multiple times until you’re completely knocked out, dismissing Padmé when she offers to take you back to your room, preferring to keep you close for another while. His stare as he looks at you is so tender that Obi-Wan can’t believe he just had to leave him to die.
Soon enough the recording restarts, the same banter and song again, but he lets it play. Every word is a guilt trip, every laugh a stab in his chest, and the image of Anakin with a baby happily sleeping against his chest might just be the end of him.
By the time he finally shuts the holocron off both you and the twins are passed out; he tries to convince himself that the hole in his chest isn’t gnawing away at the last bit standing of his sanity. He looks at you, carding a hand through your hair, of the same tenderness as your father but with the same curl of your mother's, and decides here and there to never tell you about what really happened on Mustafar. Not that he really had the intention to do, as of now, but… you don’t deserve to know about Vader. Obi-Wan won’t let you live with the knowledge that your father killed both himself and your mother, no.
And so, the lie about Darth Vader killing both Senator Amidala and her loyal guard, Anakin Skywalker, who lost his life fighting for hers, is born.
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ynfan y’all are taking this too seriously. so what if they’re hooking up?
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PAIRING: hayden christensen x pregnant!reader
FLUFF ❦
You’re glaring at your own feet like they betrayed you in the worst way imaginable. You felt humiliated, embarrassed and fat. And you swear to anything that's holy, it does not help you with your hormones that give you a true rollercoaster. While you're in your own thoughts, HAYDEN CHRISTENSEN crouched in front of you, big hands working carefully as he looped your shoelaces together. For the first time since your pregnancy you'd actually let him do that. You'd tried to go with sandals, something light, something easy to wear with no tying, zipping and all that shit you had in your closet. But when the pregnancy started to get more and more serious, when your belly was pulling you back from doing basic things, you had to let him help. Otherwise, how were you supposed to go outside, barefooted?
Your lower lip jutted out as you blinked down at him, sniffling softly, quietly. Hayden, of course, noticed immediately, like he always does, pausing after finishing the knot. He looked up at you, blue eyes warm with concern.
“…Sweetheart?”
Your lip instantly wobbled. “I can’t even tie my own shoes anymore.”
His brows lift slightly, lips twitching like he was trying so hard not to smile. “Well, yeah, baby. Kinda hard with that belly in the way.”
You sniffled harder. The audacity “My belly isn't 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 big.”
He exhaled through his nose; amused yet still incredibly soft with a patience of a saint “You’re literally growing a whole human in there, sweetheart.”
You crossed your arms, eyes still locked onto his as he kneeled before you. “But I wanted to do it myself, no help required”
Now Hayden definitely couldn't bite down his smile
He sat back on his heels, resting his palms against your knees, rubbing slow circles with his thumbs. “You want me to untie ‘em so you can do it yourself?”
You gasped. “Dont you dare”
He laughed, the sound deep and warm, adam apple visibly moving back and forth against his throat. The melody of it was so full of love you nearly melted into a puddle right then and there.
“Then what’s the problem, baby?” he asked gently, thumbs still stroking your skin.
Your lips twisted into a more advanced pout “Dont wanna talk about it”
Hayden tilted his head, fighting another grin. “You sure?”
You nodded firmly.
“…You sure sure?”
You shot him a weak glare before it completely fell apart, upon to you just sniffling again, reaching for him, arms looping around his neck as you practically collapse into his warm, solid chest.
Hayden had caught you like it was nothing. Like you don’t weigh anything at all. His hands smoothed over your back, voice dropping into that hushed, soothing tone he always uses when you get all teary-eyed over nothing.
“Aw, baby,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. “Hormones hittin’ you hard today, huh?” to which you just nodded into his neck, sniffling once more. None had really prepared you for such effects of pregnancy; constant mood swings, cravings, visits to the bathroom each five to ten minutes, having trouble sleeping...
He smiled. “You know I don’t mind tying your shoes, right?”
You squeezed him tighter, wanting to be as close as it's possible to him. “its the principle of it.”
Hayden laughed again, pressing another kiss to your hair. “Alright, sweetheart. Whatever you say.”
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Rafe x Baker!Reader
-> headcanons + blurbs
ꕥ Rafe knew he was done for the moment he tasted Baker!Reader's desserts because if something this sweet could come from her hands, he could only imagine how life-changing it would be to have her heart.
You shouldn’t be here. The thought ran circles in your head as you adjusted the lace on your apron for the tenth time. The waiters sweeping past with trays of champagne looked polished and effortless. Meanwhile, you were you: a Pogue in a borrowed dress under a flour-dusted apron, standing behind a dessert table that probably cost more than your entire bakery. Meanwhile, Rafe noticed you the moment he walked in, your brows knit together in concentration as you adjusted a plate by a fraction of an inch. He lingered, watching as you smoothed your apron, took a deep breath, and finally looked up, only to find him staring. Your eyes widened slightly, and Rafe fought back a small smile. “Hi,” he said, stepping forward before he could think better of it. “Hi,” you echoed, hesitating. You glanced at the empty flute in his hand. “Oh—um, the bar is over there.” Rafe smirked. “Yeah, I know. But I think I’d rather be over here.” Your lips parted slightly, and he felt something warm spread through him at your flustered expression. “I—I’m just the baker,” you said softly, as if that explained why someone like him shouldn’t be talking to someone like you. Rafe tilted his head, intrigued. “So you made all this?” He gestured to the perfectly arranged pastries, the mini cakes adorned with edible gold leaf. You nodded, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “First big event I’ve catered,” you admitted shyly. “I have a little bakery in The Cut, but—” “The Cut?” he repeated, brows lifting slightly. A Pogue. You braced yourself for whatever comment might come next, but Rafe only hummed, reaching past you to pluck a macaron from the tray. You opened your mouth to protest, those were supposed to be served later, but Rafe had already taken a bite. His eyes fluttered shut for half a second, and when they reopened, there was something almost boyish in his expression. “Holy shit,” he muttered, looking down at the macaron like it held the secrets of the universe. A startled laugh escaped your lips. “Good?” Rafe looked at you, serious. “I’d actually fight someone for another one of these.” You shook your head, amused. “Well, you don’t have to. You can just… take one.” Rafe smirked. “Nah, I like the idea of fighting for you.” Your breath hitched slightly, and he didn’t miss the way you quickly looked away, as if you could hide the sudden warmth in your cheeks. Rafe just grabbed another macaron, shaking his head. “Yeah, I’m definitely coming to your bakery tomorrow.”
ꕥ Rafe Becomes Baker!Reader's #1 Customer (and Admirer)
The next morning, he actually showed up at your bakery. You were still wiping down the counters, your apron tied neatly over your dress, when the bell above the door chimed. “You’re here early," you blinked in surprise, fingers tightening around your rag. Rafe Cameron, in all his Kook glory, stood in your little bakery like he belonged there. His hair was still damp from a shower, pushed back like he hadn’t quite cared enough to style it, and his shirt was only half-buttoned over his undershirt, like he’d thrown it on in a rush. He looked out of place. And yet, somehow, he also looked… comfortable. “Yeah, I—uh—just need a coffee,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. Then, after a beat, he added, “And like, one of everything.” You stared at him. “One of everything?” Rafe nodded, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Yeah. Just, y’know… for variety.” Variety. You pressed your lips together, fighting the urge to smile. “Alright, well, it’s gonna take a minute.” “That’s fine.” He rocked back on his heels. “I got time.” And he did have time, apparently. Because after that morning, Rafe Cameron started showing up at your bakery every day. At first, it was just for coffee and a pastry. Then it turned into two pastries. Then three. Then “I’ll just take a whole box.” And then, one morning, you caught him watching as you kneaded dough behind the counter. He was leaning on the display case, elbow propped up, watching you with the kind of lazy, amused smirk that made your stomach do something ridiculous. “What?” you asked, brushing a stray piece of hair from your face. Rafe tilted his head. “Nothing.” You narrowed your eyes. “You’re staring.” He grinned. “Yeah, well. It’s interesting.” “Me baking is interesting?” “Kinda,” he said, like it was obvious. “I mean, you get all serious. It’s cute.” You fumbled the dough.
ꕥ Baker!Reader Was a Pogue. Rafe Was a Kook. It Was Complicated.
Rafe leaned against the bakery counter, watching you roll out dough with the kind of focus that made his chest feel tight. Your apron was dusted with flour, a smudge of it on your cheek, and your hands moved with effortless precision. He hated it. Not you... never you. But the fact that you worked so damn hard for so little. That no matter how many hours you poured into this place, it was barely enough to keep the lights on. That your oven broke last week and you had to shut down for two days because you couldn’t afford a repairman right away. He hated that. “You know you’re too good for this side of the island, right?” You glanced up, breath hitching slightly, before rolling your eyes. “I like this side of the island, Rafe.” He drummed his fingers against the counter. “I could buy you a place in Figure Eight.” “No.” “Okay.” He shrugged. “But if you ever change your mind…” You shot him a look, exasperated but amused. “I won’t.” Rafe didn’t push. He never did... not about this, at least. But he’d be lying if he said it didn’t bother him. Because every morning, he saw how early you got up. He saw the way you rubbed your sore wrists after hours of kneading dough, the way your eyes dimmed a little when you counted the register and barely made enough to cover next week’s supply order. You were so good at what you did. And yet, the world still made you struggle for it. It pissed him off. And Rafe Cameron hated feeling powerless. So, he did what he could. He came in every day. Bought more than he could eat. Slipped a few extra bills under the register when you weren’t looking. Sent other Kooks your way, dropping your bakery’s name at country club brunches like it was the hottest new trend. And when you got suspicious, when you narrowed your eyes at him after his third suspiciously large order in a week, he just smirked and said, “What? I like good food.” And that you believed. Because he did. But more than that, he liked you.
ꕥ Rafe Started Helping Baker!Reader Out… In His Own Rafe Way.
You sighed as you stared at the absurd stack of cash in the tip jar. Again. “Rafe.” Rafe, who was currently leaning against the counter, sipping his coffee like he hadn’t just dropped an entire hundred-dollar bill for a pastry that cost three bucks, looked up innocently. “What?” You crossed your arms. “This is ridiculous.” “It’s my money,” he said, like it was the simplest thing in the world. “I do what I want with it.” You narrowed your eyes. “And what you want to do is leave a hundred-dollar tip for a muffin?” “Damn good muffin,” he replied, taking another bite. “Honestly, you should be charging more.” You huffed, shoving the money toward him. “I can’t take this.” Rafe just smirked, tilting his coffee cup toward you in a mock toast. “Good thing I already walked away.” He strolls off smugly, towering over the other customers. You wanted to be mad, but how could you be when you knew exactly what he was doing? And that wasn’t even the worst of it. Because then, suddenly, Kooks started coming in. Rich girls in designer dresses asking about your custom cakes, trust fund guys showing up with their dads’ AmEx cards to place catering orders. At first, you thought maybe people had just noticed your bakery. But then... “Yeah, I don’t care if you don't want cupcakes at your yacht party, you’re ordering from her.” You whipped your head around to see Rafe standing outside the bakery, phone to his ear, already negotiating your next big order. “Rafe,” you hissed, striding up and yanking the phone out of his hand. “I won't charge Kook prices—” “Then I’ll pay the difference,” he said easily. You stared at him, mouth opening and closing. “That’s not how business works.” Rafe shrugged. “It is now.” And what were you supposed to say to that? Because somehow, this was just so him. Helping in the only way he knew how. With money. With influence. With that damn smirk that made you want to yell at him and kiss him at the same time. You shook your head, shoving his phone back at him. “You’re impossible.” He grinned. “Yeah, but I’m your favorite customer.”
ꕥ Rafe Bragged About Baker!Reader to Everyone. Constantly.
“She’s the best baker on the island. No—actually? Best in the whole damn country,” Rafe declared, leaning back in his chair with a satisfied smirk. Topper rolled his eyes. “Bro, it’s a bakery, not a Michelin-star restaurant.” Rafe scoffed. “Shut up, you wouldn’t know good food if it smacked you in the face. Her croissants? Life-changing. Her cakes? Masterpieces. Like, people should be paying thousands for them.” Kelce raised a brow. “You mean, you pay thousands for them.” Rafe shrugged, unbothered. “Worth every penny.” His friends had never seen him like this: practically glowing whenever he talked about you. It was kind of ridiculous. And it only got worse when you started dating. “Yo, you gotta try this,” Rafe would say, shoving a pastry into someone’s hands before they could protest. “My girl made it. From scratch.” At parties, he’d corner people and pull up pictures on his phone, of cakes, cookies, pastries, like a proud dad showing off his kid’s school projects. One time, you even caught him filming an Instagram story of your bakery’s display case, narrating like a food critic. “Look at that. Perfection. That’s my girl.” And the way he beamed when he called you that? His girl? It made your stomach flip every time. One night, you were curled up on his couch, your head resting on his chest as he scrolled through his phone. “You know,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, “one day, you’re gonna have your own fancy bakery in Figure Eight. And I’ll be the first one in line every morning.” You snorted. “I like my little bakery in The Cut, Rafe.” He smirked, tightening his arm around you. “Yeah, yeah. But when you expand, just remember who believed in you first.” You rolled your eyes but smiled. Because as much as Rafe loved to brag about you, the truth was, he just really loved you.
A/N: i love them.
being lee byung-hun’s controversially young girlfriend
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user1 damn she lucky
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yourusername look at the pictures I found guyss ( little gift at the end 🫣)
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wild4byunghun she’s getting that dick every night
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marrymebyunghun I took the last picture *real*
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The Very Accidental Jedi Council Reveal PT 2
Pairing: Hidden Wife! reader x Anakin Skywalker
Summary: part two of the hidden wife series. What happens when the council find out about his secret wife?
Anakin had been so careful. Well… as careful as he could be, which, if you asked Obi-Wan, was about as careful as a rampaging bantha in a porcelain shop. But still, he had managed to keep his marriage a secret from the Jedi Council for years.
Oh no.
Until today.
Until this disaster.
It all started with a simple Senate gala. You were there, of course, dressed to perfection, mingling with diplomats, and avoiding the usual political nonsense. Anakin, in all his “totally subtle” Jedi glory, was supposed to be on duty as security.
And everything was fine until he saw you talking to a Senator.
Anakin wasn’t the jealous type. Except when he definitely was.
So, naturally, he did what any rational man would do: stormed across the room, wrapped an arm around your waist, and kissed you in front of half the Senate and—oh.
That wasn’t just any group of people standing right there. That was the entire Jedi High Council.
Including Mace Windu, who was staring at Anakin like he was about to throw him into the sun.
Plo Koon, who tilted his head like he was intrigued.
Yoda, who merely blinked slowly and sighed.
Obi-Wan, whose soul visibly left his body.
Anakin, realizing he had just exposed his marriage in the worst way possible, did what any mature Jedi Knight would do in this situation.
He panicked.
“Uh.” He blinked at the Council. Then at you. Then back at them. “Would you believe me if I said this was a… mission?”
Mace Windu’s stare could have melted durasteel. “No.”
“A secret Jedi assignment?”
“No.”
“A—”
“ANAKIN.”
You, ever the supportive wife, cleared your throat. “Well, I mean… technically, it was a secret.”
Obi-Wan groaned into his hands. “This is worse than I imagined.”
Yoda hummed. “Knew, I did.”
Anakin’s mouth fell open. “Wait what? You knew?”
Yoda nodded sagely. “Terrible at hiding things, you are.”
Mace took a deep breath, visibly restraining himself. “Skywalker. Are you telling me you’ve been married this whole time?”
Anakin looked at you. You looked at him. Then you both looked back at the Council.
“…No?”
Obi-Wan groaned louder.
And that was how Anakin’s worst-kept secret finally came crashing down.
Arcane Imagine;
pairings; Vi/reader
Imagine you and Vi moving in together for the first time.
warnings; fluff, established relationship, love sick!vi, more fluff & comfort, arcane au, implied smut reference, teasing, s*xual jokes
a/n; I recently moved <33 so I wanted to write a lil something for vi I can now get back to writing and making silly lil posts because moving is exhausting as fuck lmao
You and Vi have been thinking about moving in together for the longest time, Vi first thought about it when she laid eyes on you when she saw you at the bar
You were with your friends, hanging out, drinks in hand, laughing along with them, she couldn't stop staring at you, how gorgeous you looked that night, how effortlessly beautiful you are to her
She really was a moth that was drawn to the flame
Because randomly, after meeting you, talking to you for a few hours in some bathroom, she was already attached to you, she didn't say it out loud then, it took her ages to actually tell you she has feelings for you
When she did though, it was the best decision she's made, and the one that didn't go to shit
Vi is always by your side, clinging to you, like a lost puppy, it's adorable, you think, as you do the same to her
But when it's just you two, she really let's down her walls and is just completely herself
When there's others around, she puts on that tough act, your very own scary dog privilege
No one can touch you or talk to you in a wrong way, and if someone upsets you, makes you uncomfortable, well they're in for a beating
Vi does not mind getting her knuckles bloody for you
When you brought up the idea of living together in an apartment, even if it wasn't that big and the rent was high, Vi immediately jumped on board
You found it really fucking cute, watching her ramble excitedly about how you two should decorate your room, apartment, she says how you can have your plants in different places, a nice coffee table, a tv, games, you just really liked listening to her talk
Now when you two did the apartment hunting, that was long and slightly boring, having to meet up with strangers to potentially set a deal on your new home, yes, you were both still very excited, and finally, after trying to find the right one, you both found your home
You got what you could afford, and after signing the lease and getting the keys, you were able to officially move in
The moving was stressful, getting everything together, making sure nothing was lost or broken, Vi kept on worrying about her CDs and DVD collection, same with her other collections she has that she didn't want to lose, stuff that she's kept from her childhood, rare items she's found that people have thrown away for some reason and it's actually worth a lot, Vi likes those stuff, she likes finding good things
You like to add to the collections to, when you find things that remind you of Vi
Vi wouldn't show much of her "nerdy" side to anyone else but you had that special spot
There definitely would be Vi making sex jokes, how the new couch would be perfect to try new positions on, or how the bed might not last that long, for that you slapped her playfully on the shoulder, and she laughed hard
She loved teasing you
And will not stop
Vi never really knew she was ever gonna experience this, just that domestic life filled with good moments that will play a huge part in your life for years, and here she was with you, she did not want to let go
Vi was excited about turning this place into a home that shows the both of you, so when they invited people over they would know immediately
She was crazy for you, in the best way possible and you wouldn't have it anyway else
more lee byung hun. Thats all. Thankz
lee byung-hun x actress!reader
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byunghun0712 #오징어게임2 #SquidGame2
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yourusername watch squid game season 2 now on Netflix!
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I think I might be obsessed with him
anyways thank you for the request
⋆. 𐙚 ˚ so highschool,
summary. strangely enough, dean will be staying in the same place for more than a week. it seems like you caught his eye
pairing. teen!dean winchester x reader
wordcount. 477
notes. i was thinking of turning this small lil drabble into more parts. what do you think? let me know if you're interested ehe ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚
You hear him before you see him—Dean Winchester, the new guy, the one who showed up a month ago and has already carved his name into the school like he owns the place. Girls whisper about him in the hallways, and guys either want to be him or want to fight him. He’s built a reputation fast: charming, cocky, a little dangerous.
And, apparently, persistent.
“Hey, sweetheart,” Dean drawls, leaning against the locker next to yours like it was put there for him specifically.
You don’t spare him more than a glance, shoving your history textbook into your bag. “Not interested.”
Dean chuckles, undeterred. “C’mon, you don’t even know what I was gonna say.”
You turn to him then, raising an eyebrow. “You were gonna ask me out.”
His grin widens. “Damn, you’re good.”
“And I said no.” You click your locker shut, shifting your bag higher on your shoulder. “So, if you’ll excuse me—”
Dean steps in front of you, not blocking your path exactly, but making it clear he’s not done. “Hold on, now. You didn’t even let me give my pitch.”
You sigh. “Your pitch?”
“Yeah. I’ve been working on it.” He tilts his head, watching you like you’re a puzzle he’s determined to solve. “Okay, picture this: you, me, a classic drive-in movie—real romantic, right? You get to pick the film, I don’t even care if it’s some sappy chick flick. After that, we grab burgers, fries, a milkshake to split—hell, I’ll even let you have the cherry on top. Then I take you home like a perfect gentleman.”
You fold your arms, unimpressed. “And how many girls have you used that exact line on?”
Dean smirks. “Would it make you feel better if I said just you?”
“No.”
“Ouch,” he says, placing a hand over his heart like you just stabbed him. “Alright, alright, I get it. You’re immune to my undeniable charm.”
“Glad we’re on the same page.”
He doesn’t move. If anything, his eyes soften, like he’s actually looking at you for the first time instead of just working another angle. “Most girls around here fall over themselves the second I flash a smile.”
You shrug. “Most girls around here have bad taste.”
That gets a laugh out of him—real, genuine. “Okay, I deserved that.” He exhales, running a hand through his hair before fixing you with something dangerously close to sincerity. “But listen, I’m not gonna give up that easy.”
You roll your eyes. “Of course, you’re not.”
“Damn right. Because, sweetheart, I don’t just want a yes. I wanna earn it.” He winks, stepping back just enough to let you pass. “So, go ahead, keep turnin’ me down. I’ll be right here, tryin’ again tomorrow.”
And with that, he’s gone, whistling as he walks away, leaving you with the distinct, frustrating feeling that this is far from over.
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